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“And you will not be without companions,” the demon goes on. “There are nymphs in these gardens; dryads too. They are merry, social creatures.” He hesitates. “I can understand how my company and Aletheia’s alone might not feel sufficient for a young woman.”

I walk alongside him, silent and confused. His tone is cold, but it seems he wishes me to be persuaded. And yet what need has he to make his case? I’m here whether I wish to be or not. I can’t fathom this. Yesterday he called me a worm; today he courts my favor.

Perhaps he just wants me to see him as my benefactor. He wishes to win my gratitude so that he can boast he rescued me as he rescued Aletheia. He wishes me to overlook that he lied to me, entrapped me, and now refuses to let me leave. I feel his sidelong glance again.

“I do not think it impossible,” he says, his voice as stiff as before, “that you could be happy here.”

I look over. “And do you care, if I am happy or otherwise?”

“I am not indifferent,” he says shortly.

Not indifferent—how flattering.A sharp laugh bubbles up in me, but suddenly I find myself wondering: who exactlyhascared whether I was happy or not?

My father wished me to be safe and healthy. He wished me to marry well and make him proud. But did he ever question whether I washappy?

PerhapsInever questioned whether I was happy.

As for Yiannis, he always liked to see me smile, but not, I think, because he longed for my happiness. If he had, he wouldn’t have commanded my smiles to suit his pleasure.

Without my noticing it, somehow, we have made our way back to the palace door. Now the demon opens it—one broad, bronzed hand against the dark metal—and steps back.

“Come inside,” he says. “There is a room I wish to show you.”

Chapter Fifteen

He stops at a turn in the corridor and opens a door, gesturing me to step inside. I hesitate, but once I see what’s through the doorway, I gasp.

A loom. But it’s the largest I’ve ever seen, larger than I knew a loom could be. Its wood gleams like some magnificent instrument, its shafts and beams and heddles so intricately connected I feel dazed just looking at it. This whole vast room is dedicated solely to the loom and to its craft: over on the far wall are skeins upon skeins of spun silk, of more colors than I ever knew existed, all neatly spooled, waiting there for their beauty to be put to use.

“Whose…whose room is this?” Somehow I already know it’s not Aletheia’s.

He turns a little; the hood shivers.

“It is here for you. I guarantee you will make no tapestry more beautiful than any you weave on it. It is made from the trees of the forest of Foloi.”

The forests of Foloi.It’s where the centaurs are said to roam.

“But…it’s extraordinary…” I stare at the length of it, enough to fill many times over the room I slept in in Sikyon. I don’t know if Icoulduse a loom so grand; if I would even know how.

“It looks more fit for the Moriae than for mortal use.”

I’m speaking more to myself than to him, but the black hood shifts sharply.

“The Fates—you believe in them?”

I flush. I wish my cheeks did not redden so easily. I wish my voice did not give everything away. It is unfair that I should be so transparent to him, while he has the advantage of his cloak.

“Everyone believes in the Fates,” I say. The Moriae, the Fates, the Three Sisters—people have different names for them but everyone knows who they are. They measure out a person’s life. The youngest sister spins the thread, the middle sister weaves it, and the eldest sister holds the shears. When she decides your time is through, it’s through.

“Noteveryone.” His voice is crisp. “Faith and ritual are two different things, Psyche. Anyone may follow a ritual, but not everyone believes. Besides,” he says, “I asked whetheryoubelieved in them.”

I’m silent for a moment then.

When I was a child I believed every story my father told me: of great heroes, powerful immortals, celestial battles through the ages. No detail was too extraordinary to be believed. But as we age, our minds change. And yet…

“I do believe in them,” I say quietly.

My mother died the hour I was born. They say she only held me long enough to speak my name. And perhaps that is the reason I believe. It seems to me there must have been some reason for it. Not a kind reason, or even a fair one—no one ever said the gods were merciful. But I have to believe there is some order by which they weave and cull our lives. Otherwise it’s just chaos. No rhyme or reason. And it seems to me I can’t believe in that.